


Trompe l'œil

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, M/M, Surreal, Suspense, gallery, painter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-30 07:29:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A morbid painting featuring Harry as the subject leads Albus to the reclusive painter, Draco Malfoy. From the moment he steps into the painter's atelier, reality takes on the colour of memories and the surreal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. Draco's paintings are inspired by the artworks of Takato Yamamoto.

The first impression Albus Potter had of Draco Malfoy when he stepped into the spacious house was how piercing those grey eyes were. He felt spellbound by their immeasurable depths and their keen brilliance; they were objects of admiration as a beautiful blade would be.

The second thing that struck him was that he could not tell the age of the painter. Several strands of grey amidst locks of blond suggested Malfoy was at his prime, yet his face was that of a man who had barely passed his fortieth birthday. Albus could not help wondering wildly if the hearsay about the painter devouring young human flesh to preserve his youth was true after all.

Indeed, fantastic rumours constantly surrounded the elusive painter, who had established a rule to only take on offers that interested him. Nevertheless, as far as Albus could tell, Draco Malfoy did not look at all like the eccentric recluse the gossipers made him out to be. Casually dressed in a white shirt and a pair of khaki trousers, Malfoy did not possess the image of the notorious aristocrat his predecessors had maintained.

The seaside cottage Malfoy dwelt in was charming in its simplicity. Like a white canvas waiting to be painted upon, the studio was sparsely furnished. A dozen glass cases containing butterfly specimens were hung on the wall, and an elaborately carved rosewood cupboard of oriental design crouched beneath the unmoving butterflies. Large picture windows opposite of the entrance opened to an infinite stretch of sky and sea, cerulean on lapis lazuli.

An easel covered by a white cloth stood to the side, and at the centre of the room was a chair. It was on the chair that Albus now sat while sipping the tea offered to him by his host. Strangely, this place struck him with a sense of nostalgia; he felt as though he had seen this room before.

Silence stretched. Easing into the role of his borrowed identity, Albus cleared his throat several times, and then said in a business-like manner, "As I was saying, my client, Mr Giraud, is a great admirer of your work, especially the _Birds of Sheol_ series -- as I am. But I digress. Mr Giraud would like to commission you for a painting, and he is willing to pay handsomely for it."

Malfoy leant against the cupboard with a mug of tea in his hand, a sardonic smile creeping onto that smooth visage of his. "I'm flattered, but surely Mr Giraud has means to obtain my other works?" His voice was mellow and deep, a rich, hypnotising baritone.

"It is my client's explicit wish to commission you for one particular piece, Mr Malfoy."

A pale eyebrow arched. "And what, may I ask, will the subject be?"

Without a word Albus took out an old photograph from his breast pocket, and held it out for Malfoy to see. The subject of the photograph was a boy in his adolescence, his windswept hair dark as raven's wings, haunting green eyes hidden beneath a pair of round glasses, and a bashful smile flirted about the corner of his lips. The picture was taken in a room decked in scarlet and gold.

Albus observed Malfoy's expression closely. The painter's silver eyes narrowed as he gazed intently at the photograph, but that was all. The relative lack of reaction from Malfoy was disappointing, not to mention unsettling.

Something behind the painter caught Albus' gaze. In the glass case just beyond the painter's right shoulder, a black swallowtail was imprisoned and in all appearance pinned to the white board. For some reason, the butterfly stirred his memory, just like the atelier itself. As Albus stared at the butterfly, those jet black wings began to quiver. Like a pair of hands clasped in prayer, the swallowtail folded its wings together.

"I assume Mr Giraud was not born with the last name Giraud," Malfoy remarked, drawing Albus away from the reverie.

When Albus looked again, those delicate wings were spread across the board once more. Surmising he had imagined it all, he mentally shook his head and uttered the appropriate response he had prepared beforehand. "That is indeed the case. Nevertheless, it is his greatest desire to employ your talent for a piece that will surely be a great addition to your exquisite collection of works."

"Perhaps your client is not well-informed about my _feeling_ towards the say subject." A wry smile fluttered onto Malfoy's face as if in mockery, though to whom it was directed at Albus could not tell. "I fear I am not the suitable person to paint this piece."

"Not at all." A certain painting that was exhibited in a Muggle art gallery on Cork Street resurfaced from the depth of Albus' mind. "My client does not wish for a glorified vision of heroic deeds. He wishes for someone to bring out the brutal, naked truth behind the persona, and that someone is you, Mr Malfoy."

"The truth behind the persona, you say?" Malfoy savoured the words as if in reminiscence of an inside joke. He took another look at the photograph. "Very well, I shall accept the commission, but on one condition."

"My client will offer you everything you require," Albus said immediately, knowing many others had failed to hire the evasive painter.

"It is not from Mr Giraud that I would extract my condition." Malfoy's voice was slow but firm, a tone that refused to be disobeyed; Albus edged forward in anticipation. "I ask that you sit as my model for the duration of the day."

Eyes widened in undeniable bewilderment, Albus stared at the painter. "Mr Malfoy," he swallowed, "is this some kind of a joke?"

Coolly the painter replied, "I do not jest. The session will not take more than several hours of your time." Malfoy gave the young man a winsome smile, which brightened his alabaster face; Albus found himself unable to turn away. "It is but a small request. If your employer is of any importance to you, surely you have no reason to object?"

Did Malfoy act purely on impulse, or did he have some ulterior motive in mind? Albus could not tell at all, but it would seem suspicious if he were to refuse. Besides, he had yet to extract from Malfoy what he was looking for. "It will be an honour." He bowed his head. "But I must first inform you that I have no experience in serving as a model."

"There is no reason to worry, Mr Aubrey." The painter's smile deepened. "You only need to do as I say."

Without waiting for Albus' response, Malfoy opened the rosewood cupboard, and took out a sketchbook and a case of charcoal pencils. Leaning once more against the smooth surface of the cupboard, Malfoy observed Albus with those keen eyes of his, as though meaning to memorise his face. It made Albus feel suddenly self-conscious; he had to suppress the urge to fidget.

"Turn your head slightly and look out the window. Try to relax as much as you can."

There was very little Albus could do but yield to Malfoy's command. Putting his mug on the floor, Albus sat up as straight as he could, but he knew he came off looking stiff and uncomfortable.

Metallic eyes contemplated the curves of his hair, the shape of his eyes, and the contour of his cheek-bones. A pale hand diligently sketched out what the eyes had seen, transposing the image within one's mind onto paper. The soft scratching of charcoal on paper occasionally seeped through the silence in the room.

After comparing his sketch with his model, Malfoy flipped to the second page. "Turn your head to your right and look towards the door. Lower your head a bit. Yes, that's it."

Albus followed the instruction as best as he could, but lacking experience in such a task, he felt as if he had turned into a wooden puppet that could only move in jerky, mechanical movements. The painter, however, made no comment as he captured his vision onto the page. After what seemed like several hours of remaining still, Albus began to feel his shoulders aching from the tension and his legs falling asleep. He wanted to shift his position, but he dared not move.

As the monotonous silence dragged on, Albus thought he could hear a man's voice singing in the background, a voice so soft and low he could not decipher the words being sung. Unable to resist, he stole a glance at Malfoy, whose lips neither moved nor parted; and yet, the singing persisted.

Puzzled by the discovery, Albus was about to ask if someone else was in the house when Malfoy's quiet voice disrupted his train of thought. "Stay still. I shall be finished in a moment." Placid as if nothing was amiss, the painter moved the charcoal swiftly across the page; either he was oblivious to the singing, or he was good at concealing his emotion.

Albus stared at the open doorway, seeing neither a lurking figure nor a moving shadow. Did the singing stem from his imagination and nothing more? And yet, like everything else in this room, the song unlocked something in his head he could not quite describe. He had heard the song before, though he could not tell from where.

"What are your thoughts on art in general, Mr Aubrey?" Malfoy asked in a conversational tone, a departure from his cool demeanour earlier.

"I don't possess the knowledge to develop any professional opinion, but people have a tendency to perceive what they love as masterpiece. I find it tiresome when someone tries very hard to persuade me about the merit of a particular work, especially when I don't feel the same level of appreciation for the piece."

"It is true that each person has different taste in art, but there is a general consensus amongst the population as to what constitutes beauty. For example, people generally agree that Monet's paintings are pretty, but they cannot quite agree on Kokoschka's works."

His curiosity piqued, Albus cast another glance at the painter. Uncanny and bold in execution, Draco Malfoy's paintings were subjects of both mortification and adoration. Depictions of the macabre, the morbid and the moribund were not uncommon. No one can remain indifferent to his artworks, though Albus had an entirely different reason for being bothered. "And if I may ask, what kind of aesthetics are you striving for, Mr Malfoy?"

The singing had ceased abruptly at what sounded like the middle of a phrase. Malfoy smiled the same sardonic smile from before. "You are asking this humble painter a difficult question, Mr Aubrey."

"I apologise if I had offended you," Albus hastily said.

With grace Malfoy waved aside his apology and continued his sketching. "You are not the first person to ask me this question. Rather than articulating the answer in words, I prefer revealing my answer through my paintings. Whatever you see in my paintings and however you interpret them would be my reply to you."

How was he supposed to interpret _that_ painting then? Albus thought while staring at the door. _Eternity_ by Dorian Marlowe -- the initials of the artist, the style of the painting, the minute details, and the subject could hardly be a coincidence. Even subtle differences between this painting and Malfoy's works could not disguise the fact that they were created by the same person.

_I want to see you in a painting like this,_ the expert and his occasional lover had said on a whim after making his final judgement. _Then again, if you let another man paint you this way, I might become jealous._

Casting aside the unpleasant memory, Albus calmed himself and put on an apologetic smile. "I fear this is a mystery beyond my ability to solve." He paused. "By any chance, do you know of an artist by the name of Dorian Marlowe? His exhibition is truly fascinating. Desire and loathing, love and death, beauty and decay -- it is impossible to separate one from the other."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malfoy's hand halt for a moment, but he could not quite fathom out the expression on Malfoy's face. Was it resignation or relief?

"You are too modest to claim you know little about art." The painter turned to the third page, the charcoal in his hand poising to violate another virgin field. "Turn your head this way and look at me." The reluctant model met the painter's gaze, the intensity of which gave Albus a start. "It is not Daniel Aubrey's face I'm interested in, but your true face."

Albus sucked in a deep breath, unable to think of anything beyond letting out a weak chuckle. "I am quite certain that unlike Dr Jekyll, I do not possess another personality inside me."

A fair eyebrow arched. The attempt at a harmless joke fell apart at Malfoy's feet. "Perhaps not so much a different personality as a different person altogether, Mr Potter."

His smile frozen on his face, Albus put forth one last defence against the painter's accusation. "What makes you think I am this Mr Potter?"

"Dorian Marlowe's agent informed me that a young man who, in his words, _looks like he's just stepped out of your painting,_ was asking about Marlowe and a certain painting. I expected someone would make himself known to me before long, though I did not think you would disguise yourself." Grey eyes contemplated Albus calmly, twin pools of undisturbed water that reflected little and revealed even less. "Does that answer your question?"

Silence lengthened into aeons as the young man sitting on the chair searched for his voice. One simple remark from an unsuspecting agent had rendered all his planning to naught. He did not know whether he ought to laugh or cry. Seeing little reason to pretend any further, he shed away the illusion he had worn and slipped back into his real self. Hay brown hair darkened to jet black; dark eyes brightened to forest green; the square jaw and severe cheek-bones softened to a faintly boyish visage; the tall, broad-shouldered frame transformed into a lean, agile figure.

For a long while, Malfoy studied Albus in silence as though comparing the visage before him with the vision in his head. Uncomfortable with the blatant stare, Albus squirmed in his chair and fixated on the spot beyond Malfoy's shoulder. The glass case that housed the mischievous swallowtail now hung empty on the wall. Perplexed, he looked around the room, searching for a spot of fluttering black in the white atelier, yet the only splash of black he could find was the charcoal pencil in Malfoy's hand.

Unmindful of the young man's peculiar behaviour, Malfoy tilted his head and whispered, his soft voice bringing Albus out of his daze, "You are Albus, the younger son? You do not resemble him as much as the rest of the world believes. Those eyes, however, are a different story."

Albus was at a loss for words, the mystery of the butterfly forgotten for the moment. It was rare for someone who had known his father not to remark on how he was the mirror image of his father's younger self. At length, he gathered his wits and bowed his head. "I apologise for deceiving you, Mr Malfoy. Your agent refused to let me meet you. And," he gazed into Malfoy's eyes, unwavering in his determination to pry from the painter what he was after, "I didn't think you would talk to me had I come to you looking the way I am."

A twisted smile passed across Malfoy's lips. "You might be surprised." The charcoal pencil resumed its dance across the page, trailing black curve in its wake. "What do you want to know?"

Countless questions swirled inside Albus' head, yet all of them were born from the same origin -- the acrylic painting named _Eternity_. At a glance, the painting depicted the century old theme of man and death. In a ruin of a room where vines crawled across the wall like blood veins, a dishevelled man reclined across a crimson chaise longue like a sacrifice. The man, his eyes half-closed and his mouth hung slightly open, tilted his head back to face the invisible audience. A skeleton in rags leant over the man and embraced him as a lover would, while the man reached out to the skeleton, not quite touching it, as though unsure whether he should repel it or bring it close. Nevertheless, two details betrayed his true feeling to the audience.

One of the man's legs appeared to be almost wrapped around the skeleton, and the look on the man's visage could only be described as one suffering from the death throes or from _la petite mort_. The necrophiliac sensuality exuding from the image was made all the more disturbing to Albus, for the man in the painting wore the face of the Potter patriarch.

Was the painting meant to be a mockery or an expression of admiration? Albus had not the slightest idea. What he did know was that the vision Malfoy had captured on the canvas clashed with his impression of his father. Quiet and composed, the famous Auror no longer possessed the recklessness and the vibrant passion that defined his youth. Something was missing inside his once affectionate father, though the actual notion did not occur to Albus until much later.

After wetting his dry lips, Albus stared long and hard at the painter. "Why did you paint him?"

Silver eyes gave him a searching look. "He was the right model for the painting I had in mind."

Bemused, Albus folded his hands together and leant forward, forgetting that Malfoy was still drawing away in that sketchbook of his. "Did my father agree to be your model? I didn't think he's the kind of person who enjoys being noticed, least of all through a painting..." He trailed off.

"It took some convincing," Malfoy replied, his tone more amused than displeased. "While I did have him pose for the painting, I studied his face in the same manner I'm studying yours. Other details you have observed in the painting came strictly from my mind."

His face flushed at the reminder, Albus disguised his embarrassment by picking up the mug of tea that had gone cold. The liquid in the midnight blue ceramic was as unfathomable as the night. "Why did he agree to it?"

"Why indeed." The painter pushed himself off the cupboard and put aside his drawing tools. "Do you fancy more tea? Or perhaps coffee would be more to your liking?" Albus decided coffee would do him some good.

While Malfoy brought the mugs back to the kitchen, Albus got up to stretch his limbs and to examine the butterfly specimens. Not a single corpse was missing from the coffins. He tapped the glass cover; nothing stirred. Undeterred, he ran his fingers over the glass, finding neither cracks nor openings for a wayward swallowtail to exploit. Stricken with unease, he rubbed his eyes and steadied himself against the cupboard. Had he been hallucinating all along?

His fingers brushed against the sketchbook. When he looked down, he saw a rough sketch of a fresh-faced young man staring back at him in all his stubborn, defiant glory. In Draco Malfoy's eyes, was he a rebel who longed to rip apart his father's disciplined facade, or a child who yearned to learn the truth about his famous if distant father? Absent-minded, he flipped through the pages. Malfoy could have made a good portraitist, and yet his interest lay elsewhere.

Leaving the sketchbook where it was, he turned his gaze to the easel. Could this be Malfoy's latest work? His heart pounded in anticipation. Lured by the prospect of being the first person to behold the new work, he crossed the room to where the easel stood. The sound of his footsteps created an echo in the bare studio, counting down the seconds he would arrive upon the forbidden. He stood still before the easel and strained his ear for any movement in the corridor. When he heard none, he pulled the white drape aside in one swift motion.

Shades of blue leapt out from the canvas. It took Albus several beats to comprehend what the painting depicted. On the far left, a man was sitting on a chair; on the far right, another man leant against a cupboard and appeared to be drawing in the sketchbook. The model was looking at the artist, yet the artist was looking down at his own drawing. The distance between them stretched almost to the entire length of the canvas. In the background, there was nothing but a blur of evening blue, the horizon the only divide between the sky and the sea.

If this was a prank on Malfoy's part, Albus did not think he could laugh it off; instead, he was mesmerised. The faces of the two men in the painting were partially hidden in the shadow. Therefore, he could not tell if the artist was Malfoy himself, or if the model was supposed to be Albus or his father. However peculiar the composition might be, there was something lifelike and cinematic about the painting that it could have been a scene from a film. From the visual presentation alone, Albus could sense the stifling silence, the unspoken words hanging in the air, and the interplay of connection and disconnection between the two men.

The ghost of a certain achingly familiar song haunted the room, passing in and out of the resonating silence. Tightening his lips, Albus took out his wand and cast a detection spell: he was alone in the studio. An attempt at _Finite Incantatem_ did not exorcise the elusive voice either, and unable to resist, he smiled wryly. Was it an apparition, a hidden device Malfoy had installed to make a fool of him, or an illusion created by his own mind? From the moment he stepped foot into Draco Malfoy's atelier, reality became distorted and took on the hue of the surreal.

After taking a deep breath, he took a step back to savour the painting for a moment longer. At last contented, he moved to replace the drape when he caught himself humming along to the song. He stopped; the phantom voice carried on alone. The rise and fall of the melody, the duration of the notes, the phrasing -- they were as familiar to him as the face of an old friend whose name he could not quite recall.

When the origin of the nostalgia dawned on him, his expression darkened ever so slightly. Almost as an afterthought, his green eyes bored into the blue space that at once connected and separated the two men in the painting. In the past, time and time again, Albus had heard a certain someone sing that song as though in reminiscence, and the voice currently teasing his memory in Draco Malfoy's atelier could belong to none other than that certain someone -- his father, Harry Potter.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It is refreshing to write in Albus' perspective; he gives me more things to think about than when I write in Harry's or Draco's perspective. The song Albus heard in Draco's studio is Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight, a favourite song of mine. Draco's painting, _Eternity_ , is inspired by the works of Takato Yamamoto. Thank you very much for reading.


	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. Draco's paintings are inspired by the artworks of Takato Yamamoto.

The smell of coffee preceded the sound of approaching footsteps, yet Albus was in no mood to cover up his little transgression. Staying stock still before the painting that may or may not be a memorial of a past he knew nothing of, he watched Malfoy carry a wooden tray into the atelier. The painter paused for a heartbeat when he saw Albus standing by the easel, though he did not seem angry, merely thoughtful.

Striding across the room, Malfoy placed the tray on the chair, conjured a glass round table, and disposed various ceramic serveware onto the table. The bell-like chime of ceramic and glass complemented his voice. "I presume you are the kind of person who, when given a box you are not supposed to open, would open it as soon as no one is watching."

The ghostly singing of a certain someone who was not there passed into silence, but stricken with agitation, Albus took little note of it. "If I'm told what's inside the box, I would think twice about opening it," he replied more testily than he would have liked. "It is my belief that ignorance isn't necessarily bliss."

His mouth curved into a sardonic smile, the artist banished the tray and poured himself a cup of coffee. "Perhaps."

Narrowing his eyes, Albus raised the sheet to the easel. In the next second, however, his arms froze in mid-motion and his mind reeled in confusion. What was once a finished painting of blue set upon the easel had regressed into a sketch that depicted an entirely different scene.

A grand spiral staircase wound downward and lured its sole audience into the heart of its unspeakable secret. On the way down the dizzying structure, he encountered a dismembered human hand resting atop the balustrade, slime dripping down a section of the stairs, and a young woman sprawling listlessly on the steps, holding the skull of some unnamed creature to her bosom. At the bottom of the stairs lay a mammoth black butterfly not unlike the gaping mouth of the beast named Abyss. Driven by morbid curiosity, Albus touched one jet black wing, and the butterfly disintegrated into dust at his fingertips, leaving a void in the womb of the spiral.

The disquietude in Albus' heart morphed into a surge of irritation. Assuming he had not somehow lost his sanity, there were several plausible explanations for what had transpired, one as likely as the next. The room, the butterfly, the song, the vision on the canvas -- was Malfoy trying to tell him something? Or were they illusions conjured from the depth of his imagination, amplified by a hallucinatory potion Malfoy might have slipped into his tea?

When he felt Malfoy's eyes on him, Albus tore his gaze from the sketch, pulled the shroud over the easel, and went to the table. On the table were a pot of coffee, a cup, a silver spoon, cream and sugar in separate porcelain jars, and a plate of sandwiches. Candid as his mouth rarely was, his stomach whined in hunger at the sight and smell of food. "You said you didn't know why my father agreed to be your model."

"I can hardly read his mind, Mr Potter." Malfoy took up his place at the cupboard, his back to the unmoving butterfly specimens in their glass shrines. "Please help yourself to the food."

Albus hesitated, for the food might be laced with hallucinatory potion or worse. In the next moment, he stifled his trepidation and sat down at the table. "You are too kind, Mr Malfoy," he murmured. "But surely you have asked him the reason?"

"When needed be, he can be as silent as the dead. Perhaps it was curiosity that compelled him to agree, the same curiosity that compelled you to meet me." There was a note of finality to Malfoy's words, and Albus knew he could get no more information on this subject from the man.

After stirring some cream into his coffee, Albus dared himself to a cucumber sandwich. No untoward taste or smell had sprung out and assaulted his senses; instead, the freshness of the ingredients informed him that Malfoy likely prepared these sandwiches himself. Putting the half-eaten sandwich aside, he drank the coffee, its decadent richness caressing the inside of his mouth like velvet. Fleetingly he wondered if he should ask Malfoy to teach him the fine art of coffee-making.

 _Look at the skeleton's rags,_ that lover of his had pointed out to him, a knot forming on his brow when he tasted the coffee Albus had made. _They look like the clothes the man is wearing, except in tatters. It makes you wonder if there is a double meaning behind this painting, doesn't it?_

Be it the inferno where red candles burnt and a scrawny waif sang his broken nursery rhyme, or the aloof queen who was offered replicas of human organs on silver platters as tokens of love, layer upon layer of contradictions and meanings defined the crooked yet alluring worlds of Draco Malfoy.

Silver rain began to fall outside the window; stillness echoed within the confines of the studio. While Albus ate in silence, he watched his host savour the coffee, but Malfoy was not looking at him. Grey eyes gazed at the dark sky and the turbulent sea beyond the window. A thought came to Albus unbidden. Once upon a time, did his father sit on the same chair, drink the coffee Malfoy had made, and observe the artist from the same vantage point?

A vision of his father's younger self standing by the window flickered before Albus' eyes like a half-corroded film reel. Wiping away the grease on his mouth, Albus turned to his father's former rival. "What was my father like when he was at Hogwarts?"

The expression on Malfoy's face became tinted with an emotion Albus could not quite name. "He was everything I was not; therefore, I didn't like him much."

A frown wormed its way onto Albus' brow. The remark had left Albus not a single clue into the labyrinth that was the artist's mind. At length, he rested his arms on the table and turned the cup by its porcelain ear. "Has your opinion of him changed since then?"

"Let me put it this way. Were he to remain the way he was, I would not have asked him to pose for me. Indeed, that painting would have existed in a wholly different form than it is now."

However perplexing it might be for Albus to imagine his father serving as Malfoy's muse, the meticulous depiction of his father being loved by the amorous Death had transfigured the notion into tangible reality. Despite the conflicting emotions inside him, he realised with a start that he would not wish for the painting to be altered in any way. No, perhaps his fascination with the artist's creations, and with the artist himself, had clouded his judgement.

A rush of anger, directed not at Malfoy but at himself, flared up from the depth of his subconscious. Masking his thoughts beneath a facade of composure, Albus relaxed against the chair. "I suppose I should be thankful that such is not the case." He drank another mouthful of coffee. "It took quite a long time for that painting to be shown to the public."

According to the catalogue of Dorian Marlowe's latest exhibition, _Eternity_ was completed eleven years ago, and yet it had never been exhibited before. The time gap was a curiosity in itself. In the past eleven years, several exhibitions featuring Marlowe's artworks had been held. Malfoy had ample opportunities to present that painting to the world should he choose to do so.

There was a flicker in Malfoy's eyes. "That was between your father and me." Malfoy shifted his balance and sat down at the edge of the cupboard, holding the alabaster cup in his hands, hands that had brought countless worlds to life. "How is your father?"

Something inside Albus had cracked open, and a feeling neither quite of malice nor quite of bitterness leaked through the fissure. "He's fine, just busy with work as always. On top of training the Aurors, he's also a guest lecturer at Hogwarts." He paused. "He and my mother were divorced."

"I see." Leaving his cup on the cupboard, Malfoy moved to the window. The shadow of a butterfly fluttered around Malfoy's back before vanishing without a trace. The illogicality of the scene baffled Albus, for considering where Malfoy stood in relation to the light, no shadow of any kind could have touched his back.

Reflex compelled Albus to turn his gaze towards the glass cases on the wall; a swallowtail was missing from the collection. _Maybe I'm trapped in one of Malfoy's paintings_ , Albus thought, a bitter smirk forming across his lips. Weary of the charades and the vision that only he could see, he decided to take the direct approach and courtesy be damned. "He told me about you, but he didn't tell me he posed for you once."

"No, he would not have told you that," Malfoy said, his voice resonated with amusement and an intimate knowledge concerning the Potter patriarch. "You would have asked him why, and he probably couldn't answer."

"I guess he wouldn't." Long and hard Albus stared at the artist and his reflection on the glass. He wished he could see what kind of expression this elusive man wore right now. "You know him quite well."

" _Know thy enemy_ , as the saying goes," was the answer.

Getting out of his chair, Albus went to join Malfoy by the window. With every step he took, the ground shrank and the sea expanded beneath his feet; he was approaching the edge of the world. The ghost in the black suit -- his ghost -- moved ever closer to the white figure in the glass.

"Surely you were not enemies by the time you asked him to pose for you?" Albus stood beside the artist and fixed his gaze upon the razor-sharp profile. "What was he to you? Was he really just a model who happened to be your old classmate and rival?"

Malfoy tilted his head to regard him, the very image of subdued calm. "Is there any reason for you to believe such is not the case?"

Raindrops splattered against the window and begged to be let in. In his agitation, however, Albus barely noticed the insistent drumming. "When I discovered Dorian Marlowe is your alias in the Muggle art world, I couldn't help but think that the skeleton in the painting represents you."

A curve that was not quite a smile appeared on his host's lips. "Draco Malfoy as Harry Potter's Death, I see. If that's how you want to interpret that painting of mine, you are free to do so."

"I want an answer from the creator himself." Letters from his parents while he was at Hogwarts, always penned by his mother; a light pat on the shoulder that replaced the affectionate hug; the placid smile that seemed to say nothing could rouse one's emotion; those civil yet distant conversations between his parents -- these were memories the adolescent Albus had of his father. "That painting was completed eleven years ago, and that was when my father began to change."

When Malfoy said nothing, Albus took a deep breath and continued. "Do you know of a legend about an artist who stole the life of his living subject and bestowed it to his painting? What if it was not only life he could steal, but also the soul?" (1)

"Are you suggesting that I stole your father's soul and embedded it to the painting?" Instead of the indignation Albus expected from the artist, Malfoy looked amused. "A legend is just a legend, nothing more. An artist can replicate the life and the spirit of his subject in a painting, but it is still an imitation. Besides, I'm sure the son of an Auror would know what kind of creature can steal a person's soul."

The condescension was not lost on Albus. While the rational part of him knew Malfoy had a point, the impulsive part of him longed to rip that cool composure of Malfoy's into shreds. "There is an artefact within the Dark Arts called the horcrux, which is created by splitting a person's soul and concealing the fragment inside an object."

The artist raised an eyebrow, the curve on his lips crooked with too many meanings. "Come now, Mr Potter. Before you start accusing someone of a crime, at least make sure the information you have is accurate," he said softly, suavely. "Still, I commend you for your imagination. In that regard, you are like your father."

However disarming Malfoy's demeanour might be, Albus felt a chill running down his spine. A sense of unease coiled itself around his consciousness. The rain, escalating into a downpour, beat against the cottage in a fury, its sound akin to the flapping of a hundred pairs of wings. It reminded him none too pleasantly that he was in a house situated atop a cliff, in the company of a man whose reputation could only be described as a darker shade of grey.

"My apology to you, Mr Malfoy. It was tactless of me to say that without thinking." Albus forced himself to meet the artist's gaze. "But you haven't answered my question. What was my father to you? Or perhaps I should ask, what _is_ he to you?"

Malfoy chuckled as if entertained by the antics of a bright-eyed lad, and the tension in the air was gone. "You said ignorance isn't necessarily bliss. Then there is something I would like to show you." Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, though not before he looked over his shoulder at Albus. "Shall we?"

Pressing his lips together, Albus followed the artist into the corridor. For some reason, he felt as though he had walked through this very corridor before, perhaps in a dream, perhaps in another lifetime. The wistful song, once sung by his father, rang in his head and refused to depart; not even the sound of rain could muffle the sombre melody.

Malfoy led him to the end of the corridor, where a blank wall blocked their path. When he murmured something Albus could not hear, the outline of a door emerged from the wall. There was neither a doorknob nor a handle; Malfoy simply pushed the door open and urged Albus inside.

The first thing Albus noticed was the chill that prickled his skin and made him shiver. The second thing he noticed was that the room resembled a gallery. Beyond the skylight and the window was not the dark and stormy sky he had expected, but a mass of pallor that lent a soft pale light to the room. Albus paused; he could not hear the rain striking the skylight. A hush permeated everything in the room as if time had stood still. The notion that this room was isolated from the rest of the world did not ease the anxiety in his heart.

The room was as bare as the atelier; an empty easel, a chair and a mahogany cupboard were the only furniture in the room. On the cupboard was a gramophone, its brass horn shining like a morning glory made of gold. When Albus turned his gaze away from the gramophone, he saw the paintings.

Drawn by a force he could not repel, Albus moved further into the room and inhaled sharply. Hung on the bare white walls were paintings by Draco Malfoy, paintings of a certain somebody. Green eyes gazed out of the artworks as if inviting him to become their comrade. Like a man lost in a maze, he followed along the wall and considered each piece in turn: the little red riding hood waiting in a snowy train station, the youth slumbering inside a cracked egg shell, the siren whose lower body seemed to be devoured by a large fish...

Albus stopped short before a particular piece, which took possession of his mind and would not let go. His expression tranquil, the man in the painting had a hole in his chest as if he was dissected, his flesh peeled away to expose his naked ribcage. However, there were neither blood veins nor internal organs inside the man, who could well be an automaton wrapped in human skin. Floating within the hollow cage of bones was a black swallowtail like the human soul that it was. The eerie, disquieting quality of the piece transcended visceral horror and evolved into a thing of beauty.

 _So it was you,_ Albus thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the bewitching piece. He began to understand the true form of the black butterfly he had seen in Malfoy's atelier. Somehow, the swallowtail reminded him of his father. _Have you been here all along, even though you've returned to us? Did you show me all those things in Malfoy's studio?_

A pair of hands clutched his shoulders from behind like claws and firmly steered him away. His heart beating loudly against his chest, he closed his eyes once before opening them to behold what he had suspected all along. Nevertheless, no amount of mental preparation could lessen the impact of being presented the final piece of the puzzle.

It was a portrait.

The subject was sitting on the sofa, one arm draped casually atop the cushioned back. His visage radiated warmth and affection, yet it was also tinted with a hue of wistfulness and melancholy. Half-veiled green irises, never quite meeting the eyes of the audience, seemed to be staring at something in the distance. A hint of a curve was on his lips, as though in the next second those lips would quiver and form a smile. For one unsettling moment, Albus thought the subject would open his mouth and speak to him, yet the figure in the painting remained silent and motionless.

Woven by brushwork tender as caresses, the subject wore the look of someone who loved and was loved by the artist: bashful, hesitant, yearning, anguished, tender. The moment captured on the canvas was too personal, too real. Even as the indiscreet intrusion into the sacred realm made Albus flush with guilt, a pang of envy pierced through his heart.

A criminal caught in the act, he averted his gaze from the painting, but a pair of arms caught him in a steely embrace. A cold hand grasped his chin and forced him to face the portrait; warm breath teased his neck and, to his disbelief, sent a throb of arousal through his body. A voice, icy and low, whispered into his ear, "Do not turn away. Didn't you say you want to know?"

His resistance forgotten, Albus, hypnotised by the commanding voice, raised his eyes ever so slowly to behold his father's face.

Albus did not remember how long he had stayed in Malfoy's house. By the time he returned to his senses, he was wandering the streets in the rain, holding an umbrella over his head. The sky had completely darkened; streetlight illuminated the drowning metropolis. When he looked at his watch, he realised with a start that the hour was much later than he had expected. He had no recollection of bidding the artist farewell or leaving the cottage; it was as though he had been in a trance. Did the artist give him the umbrella and then send him on his way?

The continuous drumming of rain against the umbrella irritated Albus. When he saw the telephone box across the street, he ran towards it, exciting curses from a motorist who nearly ran him over. Shutting the door behind him, he propped the umbrella against the wall, inserted the telephone card, and dialled his lover's number on impulse. It took several rings before someone answered the phone.

"I-" Albus' voice died in his throat, for he could not articulate what he truly meant to tell his lover. In the end, he took a deep breath and cradled the phone as if it would slip out of his grasp at any moment. "I want to see you right now. Can I come to your place?"

His lover's deep voice trickled into his ear through the earpiece, a voice that brought him back to the ground. "Sure, I want to see you too. There's something I want to give you."

* * * * * * *

Within the bright darkness beneath his black blindfold, his father's various incarnations and the apparition of Draco Malfoy flickered before Albus' eyes. In a parallel world where he had left behind his flesh and his primal instinct, his lover took him in his arms and lowered him onto the mattress. As he buried his fingers in his lover's hair, he wondered if his father had ever caressed those blond strands of Malfoy's.

Minutes and hours made no difference in the dark. In the limbo between sleep and wakefulness, he had a vision of returning to Malfoy's atelier. He was alone. The black swallowtail, as if guiding him, flew past him and disappeared beyond his line of sight. Propelled by instinct and curiosity, he wheeled around to find someone standing behind the easel. He was about to call out Malfoy's name when he saw a shock of raven black hair and a black sleeve-

Albus woke to the sound of running water, and the vision sank into the dark. Was that the sound of rain, or was his lover taking a shower? Turning to his side in languor, he felt around the empty space beside him, which still retained a shadow of warmth. The fabric smelled of sandalwood and the muskiness of his lover's skin.

When he pulled off the blindfold and dropped it onto the bed, he became once more Albus Potter, the son of the famous Auror. Nevertheless, in his Muggle lover's mind, he was just a young agent who shared his interest in art. The glare of the lamp in the corner hurt his eyes, and it took several beats for his eyes to adjust to the light. The outline of the bedroom came into focus: grey, cool and masculine.

How many times had he stayed overnight in this room, he asked himself. The casual affair between him and his lover had been going on for two years. He knew he was not the only one his lover took to bed, not the one that mattered most to his lover, yet he could not bring himself to end this affair of theirs. Only his brother and his best friend knew about this wretched side of him, and however hypocritical it might sound, he wished to keep it that way.

Albus dragged himself out of bed and threw on his clothes. The clock on the nightstand indicated that the hour was late enough to be called the witching hour, an irony he found marginally amusing. Leaving the mess for his lover to deal with, he padded to the kitchen, where the refrigerator hummed its lullaby in a corner. He opened the refrigerator and found several cans of beer; after a beat, he took out one of the cans.

The sound of running water was replaced by the rumbling of rain. While he nursed his cold beer, he let out a weary sigh and leant against the counter, his mind cluttered with too many thoughts. Whether intentional or otherwise, his father had left a part of himself behind in Malfoy's atelier. How it happened was a question Albus could not answer, but he had an inkling as to _why_ it happened. It was probably the same reason that drove Malfoy to paint the portrait and lock his heart away in the hidden chamber.

Raking his hair in frustration, Albus wondered why his lover was the first person he thought of after what had transpired in Malfoy's house. Was he looking for comfort after having witnessed a certain something that could not be his? Was he seeking for a way back to reality in his lover's arms? Worse still, was he compelled to call his lover because he was swayed by the portrait -- and by the artist himself? Irritated, he took another gulp of the beer and wiped his mouth. The beer tasted as sour as his mood.

_I have waited for so long. I have watched you for so long. I have admired your art for so long. Now I can finally meet you. Don't turn me away. Don't run away. I love you._

The overhead lamp was switched on, and his lover, the real Daniel Aubrey, sauntered into the kitchen, startling him. "What do we have here? A burglar who is stealing my beer?" With a grin, he took the beer from Albus and finished the rest of the can. After tossing the can into the garbage bin, he kissed Albus, his mouth tasting of mouthwash and alcohol and all things real. "Hello there. I thought you went home."

Recovered from his shock, Albus flashed his lover a smile. "If you are expecting someone in the morning, I'll go now."

There was a frown on his lover's brow. "I didn't say that." When his lover's large hand enveloped his, Albus lost his resolve and let himself be led into the sitting room. In the dimness of the night, the cerulean blue paint on the walls took on a greyish hue. His lover turned on the floor lamp and handed him the parcel that was left on the coffee table. "I found the book you were looking for."

His heart skipped a beat, Albus tore off the tape on the paper bag and shook out the content. A large hardcover book in plastic wrapping slid out of the bag and into his hand; it was the first art book of works by Dorian Marlowe, published some time after Albus was born. Eager though he was to rip the wrapping open and pore over the book now, he restrained himself and smiled at his lover in gratitude. "Thanks. I almost gave up on finding this book."

A smirk played about his lover's fleshy lips. "Anything for you. All you have to do is ask." The older man flopped onto the sofa, his movement careless yet confident as always. "You really like his works."

"Yeah." Albus sat down beside his lover and examined the art book. The cover featured a mandala comprised of a pair of twins, moths and a single white chrysanthemum against a dark background, elegant if subdued for a debut art book. Printed in Gothic gold lettering was the title of the book: _Doppelgänger and Other Imitations by Dorian Marlowe_. The self-mocking title sounded like an inside joke from a man whose sense of humour was undeniably dry.

"Once you see his works, you won't be able to forget," Albus elaborated. _Unless you erase your memory,_ he added, but he did not speak those words out loud. His lover did not know Albus was a wizard, much less the existence of a world beyond the bounds of art and science.

His lover squinted at the art book with those dark eyes of his. "There's certainly something about his paintings that speaks to one's imagination. What is the meaning behind the image? What is happening behind the scene? What does the title mean? His paintings make you wonder about these things."

"They do, don't they?" Albus slipped the book into the paper bag and put the book on the table. Even though he sat side by side with his lover, he felt a little cold. "It's chilly tonight," he said in deliberate cheerfulness.

His lover raised his eyebrows and gave Albus a quizzical look. "So? You went to see him, didn't you?" Albus nodded without saying a word. "How did the meeting go?"

"It went well, I suppose." Albus paused. "I think I have my answer now."

The artist who had brought out Harry Potter's different personae, the ghost haunting Draco Malfoy's atelier in the form of memories, the father who had become an aloof shadow of his former self, the secret shrine filled with green eyes -- the truth brought Albus neither enlightenment nor relief. He had felt betrayed by a father he admired since childhood, but after what he had seen, he did not know what to think anymore.

A sense of emptiness and envy overcame him. Was he envious of the man who had captured a part of his father's soul, or was he envious of the man who had bound the artist in chains that cut deep into his very flesh and bones? How pathetic he was for desiring something he could not have, he mocked himself.

In an attempt to brighten the mood, Albus crooked his head at his lover and smirked. "If you had done a portrait of me, would you lock it up and let no one else see it?"

"A painting is meant to be seen. That's where its value lies. A painting that no one has seen is nothing more than an artist wanking himself." There was an undercurrent in his lover's playful tone. "But if I had done a painting of you, I wouldn't show it to anyone else." Reaching out, his lover brushed his thumb over Albus' silver ear cuff. "After all, I'm not an exhibitionist."

* * * * * * *

With a flicker, lamplight sprang to life in Albus' flat, illuminating the dark wood furniture and several prints of paintings on the walls. The umbrella was left to dry in the bathroom; the black suit he wore was returned to the cupboard; the window was open to let in the midnight air. After the excitement of the day and the light doze in his lover's bed, all thought of sleep had been driven out of Albus' mind.

Throwing himself onto the sofa, Albus turned his attention to Dorian Marlowe's art book. The book had gone out of print for some time; therefore, the one in his hand was a second-hand copy. Nevertheless, other than a slightly cracked spine and some barely visible scratches on the cover, the book was in near perfect condition. He made a mental note to himself; he would treat his lover to dinner next time.

On the cover of the book, the profiles of the twins were like two halves of the same person. As Albus ran his hand over the title, the image of the lonely figure in the white atelier flashed across his mind. Even if Malfoy was the cause behind his parents' divorce, Albus could not bring himself to resent the man. In fact, he was in no position to judge his father or Malfoy, for he was...

Snapping out of his reverie, he let out a breath and dove headlong into the world of Draco Malfoy's _alter ego_. Looking through the paintings was akin to reading pieces of the artist's memory. What he held in his hand was a record of Malfoy's youth, of those years when Albus Potter as an individual had yet to exist. Perhaps Malfoy's earlier artworks were not as polished, yet they latched onto Albus' mind all the same.

In the next moment, Albus sucked in a deep breath. The sound of rain had faded into a hush; the moist air had sharpened into a chill. As he stared at the painting printed across the page, he could hear nothing but the throbbing of his heart.

The painting was titled _Samsara_ , completed before Albus Potter was born. The perspective of the piece was of someone looking through the window and into the room. A young man was prostrate on the bed, his legs crooked like the body of a snake, his eyes gazing steadily at the invisible voyeur. Propping himself up on his elbows, he was leaning over a blindfolded man, whose head was the only visible part of his body in the painting. At the upper corner of the window, an unnaturally large black-and-blue butterfly had plastered itself against the window, while beneath the window sill, poppies bloomed in a riot of crimson. (2)

At a glance, the scene appeared to be that of an intimate game between a pair of lovers. A second look would reveal something more; the bloodstain on the first man's cheek and the greyish hue of the blindfolded man's face spoke of an ominous scenario. It was a technique that Malfoy often utilised in his works, but it was not the reason Albus was plunged into a spiral of disorientation.

Black hair, green eyes, a boyish visage, and a silver ear cuff -- Albus was staring at himself, who was in turn staring at him, and the glossy paper the only divide between this world and the other world.

 _A young man who looks like he's just stepped out of your painting,_ Malfoy's agent had said to the artist. Perhaps he was not referring to the fact that Albus resembled the man in _Eternity_ ; instead, he was talking about the subject in an earlier work of Malfoy's, a piece that was born before one Albus Potter came into existence.

Unconsciously Albus touched his ear cuff, which held an illusion of warmth his cold hand lacked. Malfoy could not have known what Albus Potter would look like as an adult. Even if the artist knew the faces of his parents, it was impossible to guess accurately every little detail. The only logical conclusion would be that Malfoy possessed the Sight.

Nevertheless, he could not stop himself from delving into morbid what-ifs. Did he feel nostalgic about Malfoy's atelier because his other self was born in that place, because in a way, he had seen that room in another lifetime? Absurd though the notion might sound, he could not laugh it off. Trapped in Malfoy's nonsensical maze, he simply did not know what was real anymore.

While he scrutinised the face in the painting, green eyes meeting green eyes, the real gradually melted into the unreal. He was spying on himself, who had discovered his presence. And yet, who was watching whom?

Someone was singing Thelonious Monk's _'Round Midnight_ , his voice soft and low as though murmuring into a lover's ear. A moment later, Albus realised the voice belonged to him. His hand hovered above the butterfly in the painting, a black butterfly with blue spots on its hind-wings, caught in the never-ending cycle of rebirths. To his detached puzzlement, his trepidation was no more. A single thought blossomed like a white lotus in the murky darkness of his mind: He wanted to see Draco Malfoy again.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._

1\. The legend is taken from Edgar Allan Poe's short story, "The Oval Portrait".

2\. In Hinduism and Buddhism, _Samsara_ refers to the continuing cycle of rebirths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This story turns out to be longer than I had originally planned. It's been a while since I wrote a strange, surreal story, so I'm really having fun writing this story. I have a penchant for messing with a character's head, and Albus has become my latest victim. Thank you very much for reading.


	3. Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. Draco's paintings are inspired by the artworks of Takato Yamamoto.

Chill and decay had descended upon the metropolis; wild wind toyed with every dead leaf and every scrap in its path. On the monochrome streets, those few passers-by who dared to fight the current hunched their shoulders and bowed their heads. Braving the gust beneath a leaden sky, Albus clasped a hand over his leather satchel and made his way to the gallery.

As soon as he stepped into the sanctuary of art, he breathed a sigh of relief. Running his fingers through his tousled hair, he looked around for the man whose artworks were exhibited in this very place. In the next second, he found his quarry. Clad in a double-breasted dark coat, with a scarf wound around his neck, Draco Malfoy resembled a gentleman who might, in the next moment, disappeared into one of the paintings and never be seen as a living man again.

The artist was standing in front of the painting named _Eternity_ , undisturbed by other visitors -- for few people knew of Dorian Marlowe's identity. Like a moth drawn to the light, Albus went to him and studied his profile. What was Malfoy thinking about when he beheld the _Eternity_ he had given birth to from the seeds of one Harry Potter?

"Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy," Albus said softly so that only Malfoy could hear him. "I called your agent, and he told me you would be here. I want to apologise for my rudeness the other day. It was inconsiderate of me to intrude upon you."

Those ashen irises of Malfoy's cast him a cool glance. "Had I felt offended, I would have cast you out of the house." There was a pause. "This is not the only reason you are here, is it?"

The facade of self-possession slipped away from Albus' countenance. "I can't fool you, can I?" He gestured at the painting in front of him, his gaze fixed upon the artist. "If I want to purchase this piece, how much do I have to pay for it?"

The artist stared at the painting as though looking at a secret code only he could decipher. "This painting is not for sale."

"Because you promised my dad?" Albus said without a second thought. When Malfoy nodded, something akin to envy constricted his throat, and his voice came out hoarse. "There is another painting I would like to ask you about."

With that Albus took out the art book from his satchel, leafed through the pages until he reached the page he wanted, and presented the picture to the artist. Malfoy contemplated the painting in question, while three pairs of green eyes observed him: the man embraced by Death in _Eternity_ , the young man trapped in _Samsara_ , and the young man outside the picture frame.

When two young women approached the painting beside _Eternity_ , Malfoy said, "This is not a good place to talk." He led the way to the cosy sitting area tucked in a corner. The alcove, comprised of two leather sofas and a coffee table, was enclosed by glass walls liken to a fish tank.

Once Albus sat down opposite him, Malfoy, with a look of amusement on his face, eyed the book in Albus' hand. "I did not think your interest in my paintings would go so far."

"I was sincere when I said I admire your art." Albus closed the book and put it on the table. "Even without that painting you did of my father, your art fascinates me." Recalling to mind his purpose for seeking out the artist in the first place, he realised to his chagrin that he had said too much. "What I would like to know is why you painted me."

"Why do you suppose an artist would paint a dragon or a scene in the dissection room, assuming money is not a factor? There are many possible answers, but they all stem from a single emotion: the desire to paint. I believed you were worth my while as a subject; therefore, I painted you."

Torn between unease and vanity, Albus tried to suppress his racing heartbeat and failed miserably. In an attempt to hide his conflicting emotions, he looked away from the artist. "The painting was completed before I was born. You could not have gotten all the details about me accurate unless you'd seen me before."

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "You believe I am a Seer? Had I possessed the Sight, do you not think that someone in our world would know about this by now? After all, true Seers are rare. Once identified, they cannot hide who they are."

Unable to resist, Albus cast a glance at the artist, whose face was as unreadable and ageless as always. It was a face that could appear in Dorian Marlowe's painting; nevertheless, Malfoy never did a self-portrait, not even a cameo appearance. The artist did not exist in his own artwork except in soul and spirit.

"It is possible that there are Seers who conceal their talent on purpose. Tell me, Mr Malfoy, what are you?"

The curve on Malfoy's lips deepened into a smile. "I am just a humble artist, that's all."

Discontented, Albus edged forward from his seat. "If my reasoning is flawed, then please explain this to me: How was it possible that you drew me so accurately when I wasn't born yet at the time?"

The artist's gaze glided away from him to observe the happenings on the street. Following the example, Albus looked out the window; across the street, a row of mirrors revealed to him the reality where his other self dwelt. Imprisoned in the glass case, a fair-haired gentleman and a dark-haired young man were looking at him. The scene reminded him of Malfoy's collection of butterfly specimens.

"There are places in this world where time is distorted and the flow of magic skewed. They are like wombs where phenomena that those of our kind deem impossible can occur." Malfoy's gentle voice summoned Albus back to this side of the glass. "In the cottage, you saw things you cannot explain, or you heard voices you should not be able to hear. Perhaps they were memories or visions you could not have known about."

The remark crawled under Albus' scalp like a worm. The artist knew about his hallucination, which might not be created by an ailing mind after all. However, Albus refused to be so easily appeased. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

"No, I do not expect you to believe me, but that is my answer to you." The expression on the blond man's visage became ever so wry. "You are a wizard; therefore, you should be able to sense the anomaly in that place as well."

Biting the inside of his cheek, Albus thought about the black swallowtail and those unexplained lost hours in the cottage. Although there was a possibility that Malfoy invented the story for some ulterior motive, Albus had no proof to refute his claim. Besides, it was as the artist had said; time appeared to flow in a different tempo in that house.

As if sensing his uncertainty, Malfoy picked up the book and handed it to Albus, who accepted the book out of reflex. "Years ago, I was inspired to do a painting of you. That is the truth."

"Did you know who I was?"

"I did not know at the time, though I had my conjecture afterwards," Malfoy said as he got up, his voice soft yet laced with a steely edge. "Do not come to the cottage again. Someone who is taken by my art will be blinded by illusions and lured to the other side."

As Malfoy walked past him, Albus, taken over by panic and instinct, thrust his hand out and grabbed the artist's arm. A feeling of déjà vu washed over his consciousness; and yet, he could not fathom out the reason. "What happened to me in that secret room back in your house? What happened to the painting you did of me?" He demanded.

Silver eyes gazed at the young man for several beats before Malfoy pried Albus' fingers off him. "You saw my collection, and then you left." There was a pause. "I do not know the whereabouts of that painting. Perhaps it is displayed in a private gallery right now."

When night fell, Albus called his friend, who was an Unspeakable for the Ministry, and inquired about the theory Malfoy had proposed. Nevertheless, his friend's reply offered him no comfort.

"It's true that there are places in Britain where magic runs amok, though the Ministry must have identified most of them. We still don't know much about how magic works in those places, but one thing is noteworthy. Some form of powerful emotion can serve as a trigger to guide the magic along, and in the worst case scenario, create something that shouldn't exist." His friend paused. "Don't meddle too much, Al. You'd be asking for trouble."

"Too late," Albus said to himself after ending the call.

While the stereo was repeating a certain nostalgic tune, Albus sprawled on the sofa and leafed through Marlowe's debut art book. Strewn across the coffee table were more art books, several in Dorian Marlowe's name, several in Draco Malfoy's name. Although it was not in his nature to collect every book by a particular artist, he had made an exception in Draco Malfoy's case.

What little information he had scraped together did little to unravel the mystery that was Draco Malfoy. What compelled him to take up painting in the first place, why did he withdraw to a seaside cottage in the middle of nowhere, why did he specialise in depicting the morbid and the macabre, what kind of person he truly was -- these answers could not be gleaned from the brief biography in his books or from wild rumours exchanged among busybodies.

After flipping through the entire book, Albus returned to the painting that the twenty-five-year-old Malfoy had painted. _What do you see?_ He asked his other self, his hand hovering over the figure on the page. When he reflected on how his face had been minutely recreated by the artist's brush, a thrill, not of fear but of an emotion equally strong, coursed through his body.

If he were to reverse his mindset, this painting could be regarded as a blueprint of the individual named Albus Potter, created by an artist named Draco Malfoy. The notion, however ridiculous it might be, rather pleased him.

Entranced, he ran his finger over the face on the page, following the curve in the same way that Malfoy's brush must have done to the original artwork. In his delirium, he thought he could feel something trailing down his side like the stroke of a brush drenched in paint or the caress of a teasing finger.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for when he raised his head, he found himself looking through a window and into a room. Inside what appeared to be a private gallery, a white snake had twined its body around a dark-haired man on the altar. Upon the man's naked shoulder-blade was a black swallowtail styled in elegant curves, its wings quivering with every movement the man made. It was impossible to tell if the snake was devouring the man or vice versa.

Grey eyes snapped open and stared in lethargy at his direction. Lips so red that they practically dripped blood moved in speech, but he could not hear what was being spoken. As if there was nothing more left to say, the snake -- no, the man who was cold as marble yet scorching as molten gold -- tightened its pale limbs around the dark-haired man and devoured his mouth.

Albus woke to the voice of a songbird singing a certain melody. When he stared at his other self in the picture, he clicked his tongue and shielded his eyes from the lamplight. Weariness loomed over him like a prelude to sickness. What was he thinking? Had he somehow fallen under the artist's spell? Even so, in the dark recess of his mind, he wished he was the man being eaten by the snake.

* * * * * * *

Albus could not stop thinking about the dream or the artist's dozen little mysteries. Even at work, he would at times fall into a daze and mull over those words Malfoy had said to him. Like a blindfolded man trapped in a maze, he felt around for cracks and holes along the walls, searching for double meaning and hidden truth. In the end, he succumbed to the temptation that was part curiosity and part obsession.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the white-washed cottage atop the cliff. Beneath the waxen sky, the ocean breathed like a slumbering beast. Half a dozen paces brought him to the front door of Malfoy's house. The artist's warning echoed in his head like a knell, but he ignored it. His hand on the cast-iron knocker, he hesitated for a beat before he knocked; the knock went unanswered. He frowned and tried again; still, there was no reply.

Undeterred, he went around the house and peered through the window; no one was about. Apprehension crept into his heart, though he was not certain of the source. Step by cautious step, he came upon the farthest window he could reach, which was situated several feet from a deadly descent into the sea. As his dream of white snake and black butterfly bled into the present, he swallowed and edged towards the window.

A figure in black was looking at him from the other side of the glass.

In fright Albus recoiled from the window, and the vision was gone. His pulse racing in a frenzy, he approached the window and looked again; there was no one inside the room. Without delay he ran back to the front of the house and knocked on the door; silence greeted him in mockery. A beat later, he threw aside his trepidation, took out his wand, and unlocked the door, forcing open the box he ought not to open.

The moment he stepped into the cottage, a feeling of uncanniness washed over him. The window he had peeped into, the knock that went unanswered, the door he had forced open, the act of trespassing -- had he not experienced something of the like before, perhaps in a dream, perhaps in a previous life? The thought occurred to him but for a beat before he was on the move again.

Instinct compelled him to go to the atelier first, yet when he got there, he found no one inside. Confusion flickered at the edge of his consciousness, for he was certain that someone ought to be here. Who was he expecting to see? His gaze fell upon the butterfly specimens on the wall; however, it was not the black swallowtail resting in its prison that had caught his eye. In the corner of the cluster of frames, one of the displays was missing its occupant.

His search for the mystery figure forgotten, he walked up to the shrine. When he last came to this place, he thought there were twelve glass cases; but on the wall before him now hung thirteen glass displays. Did he count them wrong last time? Where did the missing butterfly go?

His friend's words came back to him: _something that shouldn't exist_. His father's soul should not be split in two; memories should not become tangible outside the pensieve; the painting titled _Samsara_ should not exist at the point in time when one Albus Potter was not yet born. Was the missing butterfly also a product of this illogicality?

His hand moved towards the empty frame in the corner. In the end, Albus changed his mind and took down the black butterfly instead. On impulse he opened the case and prodded the butterfly. "Dad?" he called out, but the swallowtail did not stir.

Laughing at his own foolishness, he ran his finger along the edge of the swallowtail's wing; it was hard and sharp as if cut from a sheet of aluminium. A flash of pain grazed his fingertip, and he snapped his hand back. When he saw crimson trickling from the cut on his finger, he chuckled bitterly and licked away the blood.

"How long have you been here?" Words tumbled out of his mouth and fell into the vastness of silence. "How much do you know? Did you love him so much that you left a piece of yourself behind in this place, so that you can still be with him?" The butterfly gave him no answer.

The urge to rip the swallowtail out of its imposed coffin and tear off its wings flashed across his mind. At length, Albus closed the lid and returned the case to the empty spot on the wall. As he stared at those inky black wings, he saw his other self watching him from the other side of the glass. What was it like to watch the artist from this particular vantage point, he wondered.

Snapping himself out of his reverie, he let out a long sigh. Instead of playing around in the atelier, he should be looking for the mystery figure he had seen behind the window -- if the figure had not already performed the vanishing trick. He checked all the rooms on the lower floor, and as he had half anticipated, there was no sign of the figure.

Unwilling to give up so easily, he went up the stairs and continued his search. When he came at last upon the artist's bedroom, he hesitated for a beat or two before he ventured inside. The faint fragrance he had come to associate with the artist permeated the air. The room was more bare than he had expected, but the large picture windows had brought the breathtaking seascape into the room.

A bed and two accompanying nightstands dominated half of the room. A wall of glass separated the sleeping area from the dressing room; however, it was no ordinary glass. The wall was charmed to resemble an aquarium, an optical illusion in the form of trompe l'œil that was meant to be broken when one looked at the wall from the side. Exotic fish and other sea creatures he could not name were swimming in and out of view in the pseudo-underwater world.

Artists were illusionists in disguise; it was their duty to deceive the audience into thinking the worlds they had created do exist in another reality. In a way, Draco Malfoy was both an artist and an illusionist.

One look was enough to tell Albus that the mystery figure was not here, and yet, he was reluctant to leave. His gaze lingered over the book on the nightstand, the glass of water beside the book, and the kimono-like garment thrown across the bed like a corpse. Absently he bent down and was about to pick up the greyish blue garment when he caught himself.

Something was wrong with him; his mind and his body were no longer entirely his own. What was he doing here, he asked himself as he backed away from the bed. Like a somnambulist he wandered into the corridor, down the stairs, and into the atelier. When he saw someone inside the room, he snapped out of his trance and stopped dead in his tracks.

A young man, clad in a black suit, was standing before the butterfly specimens, at the very spot Albus himself had stood; he could have been the shadow Albus had left behind. Sensing his presence, the man turned to look at him, green eyes meeting green eyes, his boyish visage a study of calm. The silver ear cuff on the stranger's ear glinted like the moon against a mass of black hair.

 _If you see your double, death will soon befall you._ The legend rang in Albus' head like a premonition, yet he was beyond afraid. In the house where rules and logic were twisted beyond recognition, he could do nothing but face whatever warped reality awaited him.

"You were expecting to see him?" The other Albus Potter gestured at the empty glass case that should have housed a certain black butterfly. His voice was different from what Albus imagined his own voice would sound like. "He's not here right now."

The spell was broken, and Albus could move again. Gathering his wits, he strolled into the room and studied his double, who could not be a more perfect replica of himself. "Am I supposed to ask who you are?"

"What do you think?" A strange smile appeared on his double's lips. "Am I a ghost? A wizard in disguise? A figment of your imagination? Another personality inside you? Your long lost twin brother? By the way, this is not a dream."

Albus suspected only the last remark was true; he must be mad to believe the words of someone who should not exist. Looking from his double's ear cuff to the crisp black suit on his body, he recalled to mind a pair of green eyes staring at him from the other side of the window. "Are you the man from the painting Malfoy called _Samsara_?"

"Perhaps." The doppelgänger shrugged and peered at Albus. "You are so persistent. Is there something or someone in here you want so badly that you would come here for the third time?"

The artist's silhouette in a gallery filled with green eyes flitted across Albus' mind. Instead of replying, Albus took in what his double had said, which coincided with the clues he had gathered. Whether or not his double had let slip the information on purpose was not something he wished to brood on. "When I first met Malfoy, it wasn't the first time I was in this house, was it?"

"If you hadn't come here again, you wouldn't have noticed. Should I call it fate? I guess it doesn't matter." Dismissive of his own claim, the other Albus stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You are just like a fly circling about a dead animal. Don't you know that curiosity can kill?"

Although his first impulse was to argue, Albus held his tongue and reconsidered his double's words. If he had been here before his initial meeting with Malfoy, and if he had no recollection of the incident, then one logical explanation remained. "You took away my memory because I was a nuisance?" Albus ventured a guess.

With half-closed eyes the doppelgänger regarded Albus. "You would know, wouldn't you?"

His expression darkened, Albus glared at the culprit, who was as evasive and unperturbed as a certain artist. "Since you had taken the trouble of stealing my memory, it seems redundant of you to remind me of the fact."

"There's something I want to ask you." Green eyes fixed Albus a hard stare that allowed no room for escape. "Why are you here? Are you here for him?" The other Albus jerked his head at the direction of the butterflies. "Are you here for Draco's art?" He tilted his chin at the empty easel. "Or are you here for Draco himself?"

A trickle of nervousness seeped through his armour and into his consciousness. At the back of his mind, Albus had been asking himself the same question, though he was reluctant to admit the fact in front of an existence he could not understand. "Why do you want to know?" There was a note of defensiveness in his voice.

The other Albus stretched out his hand in a gesture akin to an invitation. "Depending on your answer, I'll decide what to do next. You can lie if you want, but I'd know you are lying." There was a pause. "I want to hear it from your mouth, and I believe you are just waiting for a chance to say it."

The remark struck a chord inside Albus, and for one disturbing moment, he wondered if his double was indeed his other self. By right, he could refuse to answer; however, he was tired of being unable to say what he wanted to say. He could not tell his lover what was on his mind; he could not ask his father about his affair with the artist; he was sick of it all.

After licking his dry lips, Albus opened his mouth. "I am here for..." He uttered his reply.

Something black veiled his sight and drew shadows around him; the silken darkness sliding against his skin might be a piece of fabric or the wings of a butterfly. As ribbons of oblivion coiled around him like snakes and held him in place, someone smiled. "That's good enough."

* * * * * * *

After his meeting with his agent, Draco Malfoy returned home to find Albus Potter waiting for him in the atelier. Imitating the artist's habit, Albus sat at the edge of the cupboard with a book in his hand. The ensemble of low-necked T-shirt, dark field jacket and jeans made the young man look like an ordinary youth loitering about the street of London. When Draco saw the book Albus was holding, he realised the young man had been to his bedroom.

"I take it you are not a believer in the notion of privacy," Draco drawled while taking off his coat, which he then threw onto the chair. "Haven't I told you not to come here again?"

Smiling, Albus put down the book and walked up to the artist. "I wanted to see you, so I came." His movement gentle and light, he took Draco's hand and held it to his lips. "When you go out, you should wear gloves to protect your hands."

Scrutinising the Albus Potter who was not Albus Potter, Draco let out a breath as the young man nibbled his knuckle. "Where is he?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he's somewhere watching us right now." The young man wrapped an arm around the artist's waist. "To think both father and son are attracted to you and your art, genetics is such a scary thing. Or perhaps you are the scary one?" Despite those frivolous words, his eyes shone with a feverish glow.

Draco squinted at the soul that was staring out from those forest green eyes, but he did not push the man away. "Your prank has gone too far."

The man sniggered in a low voice. "I'm not a good man. You should know that after what happened in that hidden room." The most devout of worshippers, he kissed Draco's fingers one by one with a reverence verging on idolatry. "I've been watching you for a long time. I couldn't be happier when I had my wish granted, though I hate to think that my will came from that man."

"You already proved that your will is separate from his," Draco remarked coolly while the man's tongue teased his fingertip. A touch of humid heat crept under his skin and ate into his flesh like sulphuric acid. "He would not deceive Albus Potter, least of all borrow his body to get to me."

An unpleasant smile had found its way onto the man's lips, distorting the boyish visage inherited from one Harry Potter. "Unlike him, I must make do with whatever means is available to me. It's the only way I can meet you like this." In the next beat, the man tightened his arm around the artist and whispered into the artist's ear. "Let me love you, Draco."

The evening sky cast a blue haze upon the two figures lying on the floor atop Albus' field jacket. Huddled up in the midst of distorted reality, they were a pair of foetuses dreaming of the world inside the womb for two. In a low voice, Draco was humming a song while caressing the other man's messy dark strands as he would stroke a cat.

Stirring beside Draco, the man who was neither the famous Auror nor the Potter patriarch cracked open one eye and raised his head to regard the artist. "I thought you don't like this song."

From this particular angle beneath the deep blue light, the young man's face became overlapped with the face of a certain someone. Draco closed his eyes for a beat before fixing his gaze on the man's throat. "It's just a typical song about a woman who was abandoned by a lover. Still, the melody is good."

The man dropped a light kiss on Draco's collar-bone. "I like this song best when you are the one singing it." In search of the warmth he had nearly forgotten, he nestled his head on Draco's chest and heaved a sigh of pleasure. "Let's talk some more. I like listening to your voice, particularly when you are talking to me."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Propping himself up on his elbow, Draco studied the black swallowtail tattoo on the man's shoulder-blade, the very pattern he had once drawn on a certain somebody's back. His hand hovered above the tattoo as if wanting to touch it; in the end, he let the thought die and summoned his wand. "Do you know the allegory of the butterfly dream?"

"Tell me."

"Once upon a time, a philosopher dreamt he was a butterfly. In the dream, the butterfly had no awareness that it was a man. When the philosopher woke up, he was a man again, but he could no longer be sure whether or not his life was also a dream. He asked himself: Was he a man who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it was a man?" (1)

"Let me guess. I'm the butterfly and Al's the philosopher?" Amusement dripped from the youth's voice, which sounded very much unlike the husky voice of his father. "I don't like dreams. I've been doing nothing but watching and dreaming since I became aware of myself."

"What a coincidence. I'm not fond of dreams either." In a motion suggestive of an artist putting the final touch to his work, Draco nudged the wand at the man's temple. "It is time to wake up."

The man let out a breath; in the next instant, he flipped Draco onto his back and sat on top of him. "What are you going to do then? Erase my memory? I'll just end up falling for you all over again." A bitter smile passed across the man's lips. "Perhaps you'll kill me? You'll kill Al as well. This is not the ending you want, is it?"

Trapped beneath the youth's weight, Draco nevertheless was neither afraid nor alarmed. "I want you to go back to him."

"Or what? You'll curse me?" The man gripped Draco's chin and brushed his thumb over those lips he had savoured, his tender gesture clashing with his sharp words. "I might've inherited his thoughts and memories, but I'm not a part of him anymore. Besides, let's say I agree to your request. If he's not willing to accept me, it won't work."

"Of course, I have no say in his decision." The artist pushed aside the strands veiling the man's brow and felt for the scar that would not be there. "What you want is a human body. Isn't it best for you to return to where you belong?"

Green eyes blinked at him before resignation coloured the boyish visage. "You know, if I must choose between you and him, there is no contest. Why do you think I was left behind? There are only two things we ever agree on: you and your art. He gave up, but I didn't." The man pressed Draco's hand to his cheek, his eyelids slid shut in blissful content. "I want to become your muse. I want you to be happy."

His eyes narrowed, Draco supported himself with one arm and silenced the man's lips. Without skipping a beat, the man slipped an arm around Draco and deepened the kiss, drinking in every unspoken word that was fed into his mouth. The body of the son and the soul of the father -- it was impossible to tell who was influencing whom, or whose instinct had compelled whom to hold the artist until they could barely breathe.

After one final lingering kiss, Draco looked into those green irises, the hue of which he could never quite capture in his paintings. "You were wrong about me on one count. If I wanted to kill you, I would kill both you and Albus Potter."

The man's lips curled into a smile. "That's just like you, but I won't let you do it. Don't run away from me, Draco. This is our eternity: the two of us -- no, the _three_ of us -- in this house that shouldn't exist. Past, present and future all tangle up, a distorted time that belongs only to us." Inching forward, he whispered three words against Draco's mouth and pecked his lips.

A beat later, Albus' body slumped against Draco, his head drooped on the blond man's shoulder. The slow rising and falling of his back informed the artist that the young man was sound asleep. The swallowtail tattoo on his shoulder-blade had faded as though an invisible hand had rubbed away the ink. Before Draco could retrieve his wand, a fluttering of black wings grazed his cheek and passed beyond his line of sight. Feeling the sting, he wiped his face with the back of his hand, which came away smelling faintly of rust.

At length, he lowered the unconscious youth onto the ground and studied his face, which resembled that of a child dreaming of a boundless flight on the broom. Nevertheless, from what he had come to learn about Albus Potter, he knew this young man was not an innocent. After all, if there had not already existed a crack inside his heart, the fragment of his father's soul would not be able to take control of him, their goal aligned and their thoughts synchronised.

By warning him not to come here again, the lad would likely do the exact opposite. It was not a deliberate act of manipulation on Draco's part, though he admitted the attempt to dissuade the lad was futile from the start.

"What was it like to enter the box, Mr Potter?"

Deep in his slumber, the youth did not hear him. Grey eyes downcast, Draco picked up his wand and pressed the tip against the youth's forehead. Defenceless and oblivious, Albus slept on, not once stirring from whatever pleasant dream he found himself in. As if he was drenched in nectar, a butterfly flitted around him before landing on his parted lips, the kiss of a poisoner or a prince. Smiling slightly, Draco lit the lamp with a spell and summoned his drawing tools to him.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued...

_

1\. From the Daoist text _Zhuangzi_ , written by Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zhou.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The "kimono-like garment" that Albus found in Draco's bedroom is a yukata. The dreams that he's been having can be interpreted as a skewed version of the memories he had lost. Part 4 will be the final chapter of this story, so please look forward to it. Thank you very much for reading.


	4. Part IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. Draco's paintings are inspired by the artworks of Takato Yamamoto.

Ice cubes clinked inside the glass as Albus stirred the iced tea with a straw. Chatter and clatter flooded his ears, but he was in no mood to enjoy the bustle around him. His gaze glided from one end of the restaurant to the other end, taking in the faux gold decorations, dark wood panelling and servers in crisp black-and-white uniform. There was no sign of the person he was waiting for. Pressing his lips to a thin line, he nudged the peppermint leaf to the bottom of the glass and watched it drown.

Inside his head, he had gone through every possible scenario of the upcoming meeting, right down to what kind of expression he should show when that man arrived. The answer did not lie in denouncement or dejection or defiance; however, he did not wish to fake a smile and play at make-believe either. The time to act like a child had passed; he had no excuses left because of Draco Malfoy.

As he studied a surrealist artwork of goldfish on one of the walls, a lone white figure, on the verge of melting into the dark, passed across his mind. He had not seen Malfoy since that night. Whenever he thought about the artist, a strange feeling he could not quite place would surface to the forefront and leave behind a dull ache. Was it guilt or was it something else? Absent-minded, Albus sipped the iced tea, and a shot of chill snapped him out of his brooding.

It was a day and a night that should not have happened; it should have been a hallucination, a mere Freudian dream. Had he heeded Malfoy's warning, he would not have become _that man's_ accomplice and once again violated the sacred. Every word Albus had overheard and everything he had seen through the peep-hole remained in their vivid glory in his head.

 _That man_ did not erase his memory this time, even though _he_ was probably responsible for taking away his memory of what happened in the secret room. It was as if _that man_ wanted him to remember everything, to engrave on his mind that he was guilty of voyeurism and the worst of crime named curiosity, the same curiosity that, according to someone, drove him to break into Malfoy's house twice.

He had an inkling as to why he went to Malfoy's house prior to his first meeting with the artist; in that regard, he was very much his father's son. At the thought, Albus gritted his teeth and stared at the tabletop, finding pattern no one was meant to see.

Could _that man_ really be a part of his father once upon a time? Perhaps _he_ was the hidden side of Harry Potter that no one but Malfoy was meant to see; perhaps _his_ metaphoric heart had become a little twisted after years of leading a separate existence from the original. Whichever the case might be, _that man_ and _his_ obsession disturbed Albus more than he dared to admit, for he could envision himself in a similar position...

When he cast a glance at the entrance, he saw someone striding towards him in a hurry. The figure in the unbuttoned black coat cut across the room like a sword; a quiet smile coloured a lean face lined with age; the dark hair that was clipped short continued its rebellion against its master. Even when the man moved, there was something immovable about him, as if a weight had kept him on the ground. Unable to smile, Albus gave a wave and greeted his father.

Over the course of the meal, they tiptoed around the land-mine and concentrated on small talk: recent changes in Ministry policies, news of relatives and friends, the latest Quidditch matches. As Albus listened to his father talk about the happenings at Hogwarts, he compared his father's face to the many faces he had seen in Draco Malfoy's paintings. The man who was sitting before him now could not possibly be the same man who had looked upon the artist with such an affectionate gaze in the portrait.

When dessert was served, Albus deemed it was time to ignite the fuse. "I met Draco Malfoy, and I saw the painting you posed for him. He also showed me other paintings he did of you."

The sweet aroma of crème brûlée floated in the air, seducing one's palate, but neither Albus nor his father picked up the spoon. Hidden beneath the round-rimmed glasses, his father's eyes resembled stained glass. "How is he?" his father asked.

Were Albus to close his eyes, he could see Malfoy drawing away in that sketch book of his. Stricken with a bout of restlessness, he picked up the spoon and stabbed into the caramel shell, creating cracks that could no longer be mended. "There was an exhibition of his paintings in a Muggle gallery awhile ago. He's still living in that house by the sea."

"I see." For the first time on this night, the Potter patriarch was looking at Albus and not through him at something else. "Did he also show you the painting featuring someone who looks a lot like you?"

Albus blinked, his hand frozen in mid-motion. Of all the things his father could have asked, the painting that should not exist was not one he had expected. "I saw it in a book. He said he didn't know where the original is." He cast his father a glance. "You've seen the original?"

"Yes, but that was a long time ago." There was a pause as his father spooned the custard and brought it to his mouth. A frown deepened the creases on his brow. "He once said the man in the painting was a ghost."

Question after question gnawed at Albus' mind and fought for his attention. Was the ghost Malfoy saw meant to be a vision of the future? How much had his other self seen from the other side of the picture frame? Was the encounter with the artist destined to transpire from the moment his father agreed to be Malfoy's model, or from a time long before Albus Potter was born? _That man_ had used the word _fate_ , but it sounded like justification after the fact.

"There are always ghosts in his artwork," Albus remarked before eating a spoonful of dessert, its decadent sweetness prompting him to reach for a glass of water. It was a surreal experience to be conversing with his father about Draco Malfoy's art. "Perhaps you are one of them."

It was a careless comment at best and a taunt at worst; nevertheless, the remark did not make a single dent on his father's countenance. "Perhaps. But when I look at his paintings, I see him and his ghosts."

"Was that the reason you posed for him?" The only reply Albus received from his father was a quick smile he could not decipher. However discontented he was, he knew he could get no more out of his father on this topic. "Was he the reason you and Mum got a divorce?"

Beneath the golden lamplight, green eyes gazed into green eyes that gazed back, a reflection within a reflection that would never end. "No. It had to do with me."

Averting his gaze, Albus contemplated the fractured dessert in front of him. His father was not a bad man by nature, even if his passion had been sucked out of him to fuel the existence of _that man_. There was nothing to apologise for, nothing to forgive -- he tried to convince himself. "Why didn't you get a divorce back then? You could've stayed with him."

"Probably. But I was a hypocrite. Between being a good family man and staying by his side, I chose one over the other." There was a pause. "It didn't work out though. I'm sorry."

Albus hung his head and ate some more crème brûlée, which left a bitter taste in his mouth. The confession cut him far deeper than any well-meaning lie could. Knowing the dilemma had literally torn his father apart, there was very little he could say. If only he could yell at his father -- nevertheless, he was not the one who should play the role of the accuser.

He thought about his mother, whose fierceness intensified into an engulfing blaze; he thought about the painter, whose pride allowed no room for self-pity; he thought about _that man_ , whose very existence would chip away the painter's sanity until nothing was left.

Resolved not to run away anymore, Albus raised his head to regard his father. The wrinkles on his father's face had become more prominent, the streak of grey in his hair more apparent. When was the last time he had taken a good look at his father or had a decent conversation with him, he mused while feeling a stab of pain in his chest.

"Mum and Mr Malfoy deserve an apology more than I do." Albus put down his spoon. "You should live the way you want to. No one is holding you back anymore." He winced when he realised how much he sounded like a disgruntled child. "As long as you are happy, it's fine."

Taken aback, his father blinked those green eyes of his before a small smile graced his lips. "Thanks, Al."

Fighting off the urge to turn away from his father, Albus took a deep breath and asked one last question. "Are you going to see him?"

The bustle around them seemed to have slowed to a crawl and become silent. In the midst of gold and glitter and looking-glass, his father looked at him, and Albus could only stare back in bewilderment. The wry curve on his father's lips reminded him of a certain cynical painter, as though his father had stolen the smile from Draco Malfoy, a final memento for those sepia days that had become distant memories.

"The story has already ended."

After seeing his father off outside the restaurant, Albus, unable to contain his agitation, took a stroll by himself. Feathery snow fell from the rust-coloured sky and touched his cheeks, though the sensation was not unpleasant. Festive lights had invaded every other shop window he came across, but the gaiety was dampened by the white flakes drifting down in silence.

Although he half-expected his father to evade the question, the tease was a disappointment. The story had already ended, or so his father claimed. Was that his father's way of telling him to pry no more, or had the story indeed reached the final page? Albus did not know the answer, for he was nothing more than an observer.

A short walk brought him to a small church, which exuded an aura of tranquillity against the backdrop of the silvery snow. Halting his steps, he looked up at the stained glass window and let out a misty breath. Would he rather his father reply yes or no? On the one hand, he wanted his father to regain what he had lost; on the other hand, he wished his father would release his hold on Malfoy.

The vision of alabaster skin against black fabric danced within the periphery of his consciousness, and rekindled in his body the memory of holding the painter in his arms, of losing himself in the scent and warmth of a lover, of falling into those eyes that reflected his face in their depth...

A gust whistled past him and chased away the vision as if it were made of smoke. Shivering, he pulled the scarf up to his chin and went on his way. He had heard too much, had seen too much, had become addicted to a story that was not his to tell.

However persistent the calling might be, he could not see Malfoy again. It was not his place to remain by the painter's side. The butterfly had woken from its dream, the fragrance faded into oblivion. To dive to the bottom of the sea once more would be madness, for he might not be able to reach the surface next time. Forget about Malfoy and his mysteries, he told himself. If he did not tread with care, he might end up losing his mind or worse.

When Albus returned to his home, he found someone pacing in front of the building. Upon the figure's long coat was a sprinkle of white, and beneath the figure's shoes was trampled snow, tell-tale signs that the man had been here for some time. Unable to stop the fluttering in his stomach, Albus let his legs carry him towards the man who was his vice.

Wearing a careless grin on his face, his lover closed the gap between them. "I called, but there's no answer." He brushed away the snow on Albus' shoulders, his gaze lingering on Albus' lips. "I miss you."

How many times had his lover said this to him or to someone else, he wondered while feeling suffocated. _None till now, at least not to me._ "I don't love you." Words flowed out of his mouth as if they would not be stopped. "I won't come between you and her, and I'll never ask you to leave her. Don't expect too much from me."

Surprise and solemnity passed across his lover's visage in quick succession; in the end, the man settled for a crooked smile. "It's rare of you to tell me what you are really thinking about."

"I heard a parable earlier," Albus joked before stuffing his cold hands in the pockets of his lover's coat. On this night of confession and revelation, he wanted nothing more than to drown in his lover's insincerity.

"Tell me about this parable later." A pair of arms enveloped Albus and brought him close, until the two figures melded into a single shadow in this urban forest of brick and glass. "I'm going to spoil you rotten tonight."

* * * * * * *

Life reverted to the peace and normalcy from before; nevertheless, the journey through the looking-glass had left a small ripple in his routine. Albus began talking to his father more often, the topic of their conversation at times straying to Draco Malfoy and his art. He once asked his father about the house Malfoy dwelt in, but it appeared his father did not know any more than he did.

Of the artist himself Albus had heard nothing other than a rumour that his _Whisper_ had fetched a handsome price, which was unusual within the wizarding art world. Although he was determined to cast aside his obsession, he found himself straining his ear whenever he heard a similar-sounding name, or scanning the crowd in art galleries for a certain elegant figure.

One evening, Albus returned home and was seized by his landlady in the foyer. "There's a package for you." Nodding at the box propped against the wall, she cast a curious glance at the box, then at him. "Rather large for a Christmas present."

Judging by the shape and the size of the package, it was most likely a painting or a replication of one. For a moment, he wondered if it was from his lover, yet once he saw the note attached to the box, he could barely contain himself. _Please accept my apology for the predicament you were drawn into due to my error in judgement,_ the note read. Memories he had locked away for reminiscence in the dead of night spilled over and dyed everything a deeper shade of blue.

His landlady might have said something else to him, but he did not remember what kind of response he gave. When he came to his senses, he was sitting on the floor in his flat, the wrappings of the package scattered around him like pieces of discarded clothing. With care he took hold of the frame and lifted the painting to the light.

It was not a print, but the original featured in Dorian Marlowe's debut art book, the painting Malfoy had claimed he did not know the whereabouts of: _Samsara_. Perhaps Malfoy had tracked it down somehow; perhaps he had known where it was from the start and had lied to him about it. If the painting had been in Malfoy's possession all along, there was only one place he could have stored it.

Staring into those bright green eyes that were at once haunting and haunted, Albus recalled his conversation with his father. "Did you see them together?" he murmured. "What else did you see?" He paused. "What was Draco Malfoy like when he was young?" The other Albus in the painting remained silent and still, for he possessed neither gestures nor a voice to impart the secrets he had locked away within those irises of his.

Albus' dream that night was coloured by the painting and by his morbid imagination. In the room where his other self had dwelt for the past twenty odd years, he lay in bed with his blindfolded lover. Clutched in Albus' hand was a silver razor, the edge of which was stained red, yet he had no memory of wielding it. After tossing the weapon over the bed, he bent down and kissed his lover's lips. The man did not wake; Albus did not expect him to.

When he raised his head, he was surprised to find there was someone else in the room. Draco Malfoy was standing in front of an easel with a paint brush in his hand, a white silhouette shining like the voyeuristic moon in the everlasting gloom. The tip of the brush hovered a little away from the canvas; steel grey eyes fixated on Albus as if waiting to see what he would do next.

Darkness squirmed behind the artist like a living thing. It took several seconds for Albus to realise the entirety of the wall was occupied by black butterflies, hundreds of pairs of wings beating to different tempos. Nauseous from the sight, he averted his gaze and looked at his lover instead. A black butterfly with a splash of blue on its hind wings was resting on the man's torso, drinking up the crimson drops. He thought he ought to be angry, but he felt nothing.

Straddling his lover's body, he caught the butterfly by its wings, ripped it apart as though it were a love letter he had memorised by heart, and stuffed the remains into his mouth. The corpse tasted like brittle leaf, with a bittersweet flavour and the faintest tang of rust.

 _Was it mine, or was it yours?_ He touched his lover's cold cheek, his thumb tracing the contour of the voluptuous mouth. At length, he lay down on top of his lover and listened to the sound of a frozen heart -- silence. Holding his lover's hand, he tilted his head to observe the painter, who was working away at the easel.

"Don't you feel lonely standing over there by yourself?"

Malfoy cast him a glance before a strange smile crept onto his lips. Behind him, the swarm of fluttering black wings stilled as though waiting for the answer. "I am the painter, that's all."

The artist's voice followed Albus out of the dream and into the present. When he opened his eyes, the only light he could see was the luminous hands of the clock on the nightstand. The witching hour had crept into the picture while he slept, and the indigo night had invaded every corner of his bedroom, stripping him of his sole defence against himself.

The dream lost its colour and morphed into the shape of a memory: of his sitting for Malfoy in their first meeting. If the man had demanded of him, would he dare to lay bare his body and his soul for the painter's scrutiny? If he could become Draco Malfoy's muse for however brief a time he was allowed, would he surrender himself on the altar where his father once lay?

Shielding his eyes from the relentless night, Albus chuckled. From the very beginning, only one answer existed for him. In the hour when one must answer to one's ghosts, it was futile to hide behind the shield of rationality and concoct a cauldron full of lies.

An impulse began to fester inside him, eating away a corner of his reality. After casting another glance at the clock, he threw aside the blanket and made the necessary preparation to venture outside.

* * * * * * *

The chill pricked Albus' face and drove away what little drowsiness remained in him. After pulling the hood over his head, he surveyed the scenery before him. The night was deep at the edge of the world; all was quiet but for the lapping of waves. The snow, undisturbed except for a single trail leading to the cottage, had taken on the hue of the sea. On the perch atop the cliff, a sliver of light streamed out from the side of the house, lending a focal point to the nightscape.

It was not his intention to disturb the artist; nevertheless, he found himself gravitating towards the light. With every step he took, he impressed his footprint on the path few had travelled, and another pebble of reason fell from his pocket to the wayside. By the time it occurred to him that Malfoy might have company, he had already knocked on the door.

Some seconds later, the master of the house answered the door, his face betrayed a shadow of weariness. As soon as he laid eyes upon Albus, he raised an eyebrow. "It is rather early for a visit, Mr Potter."

"You are staying up quite late yourself, Mr Malfoy." Albus tore his gaze away from the painter to squint at the corridor beyond. Nothing stirred in the shadow; the air was as stagnant as the bottom of the ocean. "May I come in?"

Grey eyes narrowed in scrutiny; three beats later, the painter stepped away from the door. After charming away the snow that had stuck to the bottom of his boots, Albus crossed the threshold, grateful that Malfoy did not slam the door at his face. The faintest of fragrance lingered in the space Malfoy had just stood, and for some reason, he was reminded of a conversation he had with the artist on the night that should not have happened.

"Doesn't it bother you to live in this house?" Albus had asked in a bout of inspiration. For more than two decades Malfoy had dwelt in the house where illusion lived alongside reality; there was no telling how balanced in mind the artist truly was.

Malfoy had cast him a cool gaze as if he knew the implication behind Albus' query. "I am used to the distraction."

Daring himself to push further, Albus peered into the artist's irises and saw the abyss staring back at him. "Do you ever feel lonely living in this isolated place by yourself?" The only response he received was a wry smile that seemed more human than any smile the Potter patriarch could conjure.

The sound of a door sliding shut behind him interrupted his reminiscence. When Malfoy sent him a questioning look, he put on an apologetic smile and followed the artist into the bowels of the house. After motioning for him to wait in the atelier, Malfoy departed to prepare tea.

A single spotlight illuminated the butterflies in their respective prisons. Like before, Albus counted thirteen glass cases, twelve occupied and one empty. Once again, the fickle butterfly was nowhere to be found. Tasting blood and dry leaf in his mouth, he touched his throat and contemplated the sole black swallowtail in the collection.

For some moment he waited for a signal, a shift in reality to mark the awakening of a partner in crime whom he could not hate; and yet, other than the sluggish flow of time, nothing was out of place in this hollow of an atelier. Letting out a breath, he turned away from the butterflies, his gaze resting next upon the easel with an inevitability that verges on irony.

 _I haven't learnt my lesson at all,_ Albus thought as he went over to the easel, a smile creeping onto his face. Ever so slowly he brought his eyes to focus on the painting, and in the next beat, he became lost in the aquatic reflection of sublimity.

In the pond, a young man's face emerged from a cluster of white water lilies as if it were a misshapen flower. The rest of the torso was submerged beneath a veil of water lilies and leaves, which seemed to at once shield the youth from intrusive eyes and grow out of the youth's body. Where the right arm of the youth ought to be now floated a ball-jointed artificial arm, while the left arm was that of a skeleton. A water snake was swimming above the silhouette of the butterfly-like pelvis, as if it were born from the body of the young man.

Words failed him when he noticed the likeness of the visage to the sketch Malfoy had done of him. The young man's eyelids were opened to a slit, his lips pressed together in reticence. There was a meditativeness in the expression of the subject and the picture as a whole, a contemplation of life and death, of endings and beginnings, of the self and the other. Although the painting was not meant to ensnare or entice, he was captivated by the interplay of henosis and dissolution all the same.

A moving shadow above the easel stole away his attention. Perched on the topmost tip of the easel, a butterfly had spread its wings -- jet black wings adorned with dashes of blue, like the ones he had devoured in his dream, like the ones that covered part of the window in _Samsara_.

As though being summoned, the butterfly flew towards the window and landed on an outstretched finger. A pair of piercing eyes scrutinised the winged messenger for several beats before meeting Albus' gaze. The pale visage that melded together youth and maturity did not look so much surprised as pensive. With an easel in front of him, the young Draco Malfoy -- no more than twenty-five years of age, Albus reminded himself as he remained transfixed by the illusory sight -- could have been a reflection or a ghost, and in a sense, he was both.

Frowning at Albus, the young painter crooked his head and remarked in that mellow voice of his, "You look like someone I know."

"You have not been cured of your _ignorance isn't necessarily bliss_ syndrome, I see." Another voice, no less gentle but richer in timbre, overlapped with the voice from the distant past.

With a start, Albus wheeled around and found the older Draco Malfoy standing beside him with two mugs of tea in his hands. When he looked towards the window, the vision dissolved like a dream. Unable to articulate what he had seen, he accepted the mug without a word and took a sip. The tea moistened his throat and warmed his cold hands, and to his relief, he found his voice.

"I stand by my belief, but I know I'm not on my best behaviour when I do that." The urge to inquire about what happened between his father and Malfoy afterwards dangled at the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. It would not do for him to ask, not anymore. Instead, he looked at the painting. "What is this painting called?"

" _The Hollow of Thanatos_." Malfoy turned his head to study his latest offspring. "I plan to exhibit this painting in an upcoming joint exhibition alongside works by other artists, and if possible, with your consent and blessing."

"Nothing makes me happier, though it's a little embarrassing." Albus cast a glance at the painter, whose figure was the only real thing in the labyrinth of illusion and reality, and whose lucid grey eyes were the sole truth in the house built upon feral magic at the edge of the world.

The mysterious emotion he could almost name throbbed inside Albus like the pulsation of his heart. The feelings of the man who had left a piece of himself behind, and the feelings of the man who chose to stay -- he thought he could understand them now. It did not matter whether the vision of Draco Malfoy's younger self was a product of his hallucination or a fragment of the past. Right now, he was standing beside the Draco Malfoy from the present time.

Hiding a smile beneath the rim of his mug, Albus closed his eyes for a moment before opening them to behold the painter who had captured a piece of his soul. "What will the theme of the exhibition be?"

With a sardonic look on his alabaster face, Malfoy opened his mouth and uttered a single word as if sharing with Albus an inside joke, " _Origin_."

* * * * * * *

__

_Finis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's over at last. The black swallowtail that represents Harry is a _papilio memnon_ , and the black-and-blue butterfly that represents Albus is a spicebush swallowtail. Both butterflies belong to the same tribe, and both are swallowtails. In a way, they mirror the connection between Harry and Albus.
> 
> Albus turns out to be more complicated than I had imagined. At first, he's supposed to serve as an observer to the aftermath of the affair between Harry and Draco. In an attempt to give him more personality, his role in the story got expanded. It's been both liberating and agonising to live inside his head for the past many months.
> 
> A/N: For a more extensive author's note on the entire story, please go [here](http://lee-bella.livejournal.com/604786.html). It offers a timeline of the story, in case you are confused about what happened.


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